by Tawna Fenske
He grins down at me as we head to the door, and I wonder what the hell I’ve just agreed to.
Disco lights swirl around us, making dizzying patterns on the carpet as Ian and I stride through the doors of the ballroom. I scan the crowd for familiar faces, seeing plenty of them. Over the span of my career in Portland, I’ve volunteered for tons of organizations dedicated to supporting adults with disabilities. Half the people in this room have been my fellow board members at one time or another, and the other half are connected to families I’ve worked with over the years.
Have I mentioned I love my job?
I start forward, eager to have a glass of wine in hand before I begin the professional chit-chat.
“Hang on,” Ian says, catching my arm before I make a beeline for the bar. He adjusts the big poofs of neon-colored netting that circle my torso before dotting a fast kiss at the edge of my mouth. “You make a very sexy loofa.”
I survey my outfit and grin, unaccustomed to seeing my whole body decked out to look like a bright yellow body puff. “There’s something I’ll bet you never thought you’d say.”
“True enough,” he admits. “I’ve also never found myself wanting to have sex with a loofa.”
I give that some thought, then wish I hadn’t. “It sounds like it would sting.” I bat one of the balloons we’ve affixed to the giant white box covering his torso. A box that reads SOAP in big, blue letters. “I guess I never thought I’d be hot for a bar of soap, so there’s that.”
He strikes a goofy pose, then leans in close. “Are you having dirty thoughts about me?”
“Of course not. These are the cleanest costumes imaginable.”
“Really?” He grins, then leans so close his lips brush my earlobe. “Because I’ve got some filthy ideas I’d like to share with you.”
A shiver of pleasure rattles down my spine, but I’m spared from responding when board treasurer Glenda Newkirk hustles over in a skin-tight dress made of crimson polyester. Black garters anchor the red fishnets around her thighs, and her salt-and-pepper perm is tucked up under her cloak. I can’t tell if she’s Little Red Riding Hood or a hooker in a hooded cape, and it’s not until I see the wolf man behind her that I’m certain which it is.
“Sarah! You made it.” The woman smiles and tugs at my loofa netting. “And look at how cute you are.”
“Glenda, it’s good to see you,” I say. “This is Ian Nolan.”
“Pleasure to meet you.” Ian shakes hands with Glenda first, then offers a hand to the Big Bad Wolf. “Love the fangs.”
“Thanks, man,” the wolf says. “Bart Newkirk. I’m Glenda’s husband.”
Glenda turns her attention to Ian with a gleam in her eye. I recognize that gleam. I’ve seen it several times on organizing committees when Glenda is about to get waaaay too personal with her line of questioning. “Love the matching costumes,” she says. “Very cute. How did you two meet?”
“We’re old college friends,” I supply, hoping my breezy, casual tone will stave off any further questions.
Glenda’s not buying it. She studies me like a detective trying to crack a big case.
“You definitely look like more than that now.” She gives me a knowing eyebrow wiggle and leans close like we’re sorority sisters sharing secrets. “I don’t remember you ever bringing a date to this before. Seems like a sign, hmm?”
Music throbs around us, or maybe that’s my head. I look to Ian, trying to decide how to play this. “We’ve—uh—known each other a long time,” I offer, wondering if we should make a break for the buffet table. “If you’ll excuse us a sec, we’ll just—”
“Oh, Sarah.” Glenda catches my arm and shifts her voice to a conspiratorial whisper they can probably hear three blocks away. “You know what they say about a woman’s chances of conceiving after thirty. You don’t have unlimited time is all I’m saying.”
Jesus. I thought I’d be cold in this skimpy dress covered in big poofs of netting, but my face burns like we’re standing in front of a commercial oven. “I—uh—”
“You just had a big birthday, am I right?” Glenda’s sympathetic cluck would be more appropriate if she offered it to someone who just lost a limb. “Best get to it, sweetheart. Those eggs are drying up.”
Oh my God.
Is it too early to hope the floor will open up and swallow me?
At least Glenda’s husband, Bart, has the good grace to look embarrassed. He directs a nod of manly sympathy at Ian. “Kids are great,” he offers. “We had our twins early so we’d still have the energy to play with ’em, you know?”
Since Bart and his ilk will never be the ones enduring childbirth or an endless stream of conversations like this one, I have a sudden urge to stomp on his foot. Paw. Whatever.
Ian must sense this, because he puts an arm around me and offers Glenda a smile that could melt chocolate. “I’m really proud that Sarah’s taken the time to get established in her career,” he says. “She owns her own home and has a level of financial independence that’s really admirable.”
Glenda frowns at him like he’s a six-year-old who just tied his shoes wrong. She gives me one of those conspiratorial elbow nudges that’s meant to be funny, but will probably leave a bruise. “It’s not roses and romance, honey, but he’s got your back.” She laughs and points a finger at me. “Just make sure you’re paying attention to the ticking.”
“Ticking?”
She laughs like she’s made the world’s funniest joke. “Your biological clock, sweetheart.”
I grit my teeth and remind myself that Glenda is from a different generation. That the kind of practical relationship Ian and I are contemplating would make no sense to her or Bart or probably most people I know. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to bite her finger off if she points it at me one more time.
Ian probably feels my blood boiling beneath the surface of my skin, and he tightens his arm around me before addressing Glenda again. “You know, that’s a really terrific idea. Thank you for the suggestion.”
Glenda blinks. “What’s that?”
Ian’s arm is warm and solid around me, and his voice is cheerful and bright. “Sarah and I really should get a jump on procreating,” he says. “If you don’t mind, we’re going to go scope out the buffet table to see how sturdy it is.”
Glenda’s eyes go wide, but her husband just laughs. He holds up a front paw, which Ian somehow recognizes as a cue for a high-five. He obliges, then Bart nods politely at us.
“It was great meeting you,” he says. “Have a wonderful evening.”
The second they’re gone, I turn to Ian. “I’m so sorry.”
He cocks his head to one side. “You’re sorry? What on earth for?”
“That was awkward,” I tell him. “I didn’t mean for you to have to deal with that.”
“And I’m glad you didn’t have to deal with it alone.” He smiles and drums his fingers on the front of his soap box. “That’s the beauty of being paired up. You don’t have to face the crap by yourself.”
I snort and disentangle my hair from the loofa netting. “There’s a line for the wedding vows.”
He laughs, but his expression shifts from amusement to surprise. “So you’re considering it? The marriage thing, I mean.”
“I told you I would, right?”
“Right,” he says, green eyes glimmering with interest, or maybe that’s the disco lights. “You are a woman of your word.”
“True enough.”
We stare at each other, eyes locked for a few beats. Am I seriously considering his proposal? Could we really forge a union out of friendship and shared interests and good sex, but without the love? How would that even work?
“Come on,” Ian says. “Let’s get you some food.”
I take his arm and let him lead me toward the buffet with a whole lot of unanswered questions echoing in my head.
Chapter Six
Ian
I really kinda hoped that conversation with Glenda and Bart was an ano
maly. A curious case of nosy colleagues, but not the sort of thing that happens often.
An hour into our evening, I realize how wrong I was.
“Did I hear that woman right?” I ask Sarah as we step from the bar into a quiet corner next to a large potted plant. “Did she really just answer your question about frozen crab puffs by suggesting you freeze your eggs before they rot in your ovaries?”
Sarah pops one of the aforementioned crab puffs into her mouth and chews. “It was a creative segue, don’t you think?” She’s a lot less annoyed than I’d expect her to be. Frankly, I’m pissed off on her behalf.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why are your reproductive choices anyone else’s business?”
“Welcome to Womanhood volume three-point-oh,” she says, picking at another crab cake. “The post-thirty version comes with special features like an increased focus on your biological clock and director’s commentary like ‘did you know your odds of getting married after thirty are smaller than your odds of being bitten by a shark?’”
I stare at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”
“Oh, the statistic is totally made up,” she says. “But you want to know how many times someone’s said it to me?”
“How many?”
“I’ve lost count.” Sarah polishes off her last crab cake and starts in on the little onion tarts. I’ve always loved her passion for food, but watching her mouth now gives me a new appreciation for the things it can do.
But it’s her brain that’s always dazzled me most. Watching her network all evening, listening to her cheerfully navigate discussions on politics and current events has me remembering all over again how much I always loved talking with her. Talking, I swear, no nudity required.
Not that I don’t want the nudity.
“Guys don’t face questions like that, huh?” Her question pulls me back to the topic at hand, our discussion about her uterus and how the hell anyone thinks it’s their business.
“Nope.” I swipe a dusting of crumbs off the top of my soap box and consider the last time I had to field intrusive questions. “Not from coworkers, anyway. My mom asks about grandkids every time we talk, but she’s not really dialing up the pressure or anything.”
She nibbles at the onion tart, considering me. There’s a guardedness in her expression that wasn’t there a few seconds ago. “You said you want kids?”
“Definitely,” I say. “I always looked forward to being a dad.”
To being a better dad than my own.
Sarah studies me like she’s heard the unspoken words and knows exactly where I’m coming from. “So this is a definite part of the arrangement?”
“Arrangement?” I smile and pick at a stuffed mushroom cap. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
She shrugs and stabs a carrot stick into a puddle of hummus. “We wouldn’t really be planning to call it marriage, would we?”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she says, and for a second I think that’s enough of an answer. “Because you’re talking about something different. A business agreement or something.”
I consider that for a moment. “Would you rather call it a merger?”
She rolls her eyes and steals a mushroom cap off my plate. “Maybe a barriage. A business marriage.”
That does have an interesting ring to it.
“How about a confederation,” I suggest. “A confederation of two.”
Sarah laughs. “Very Star Wars,” she says, and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. “I guess that’s fitting, since you’re the guy who had the Chewbacca throw pillows.”
“I loved those pillows,” I say, amazed she remembered. “And the beanbag chair?”
“I loved that chair.” She grins and polishes off the last of the onion tart. “Okay, how about fratrimony?”
“What’s that?”
“Matrimony between two friends.”
“Fratrimony,” I repeat, rolling it around on my tongue. “Too close to flatulence.”
“Good point.” Sarah steals another mushroom cap off my plate, so I swipe a bacon-wrapped water chestnut off hers. “Is there a cool French word for marriage?”
“Mariage,” I offer. Even with the proper pronunciation, it still sounds just the same. “We could try ménage instead?”
“Perv.” She grins like she always has at my dirty jokes, more delighted than annoyed. “How about amalgamation? Consortium? Connubiality?”
“I don’t know what’s sexier—you using all those big words, or the fact that you just made it sound like you’d be my concubine.”
“Or you’d be mine.” She takes a bite of a phyllo pastry, sprinkling crumbs down the front of the snug dress covered in netting. “Damn,” she mutters, fishing into her cleavage for a dropped bite of food.
All the blood leaves my brain as I remember what it felt like to bury my face between her breasts. How lush and full and warm they felt in my hands.
She meets my eyes again and catches me staring. Something about the darkening of her irises tells me she likes it. That she enjoyed our night together as much as I did.
I want more.
I always did, I guess, but I can handle it now. At eighteen, my heart didn’t have the protective walls to keep it from shattering if I fell for Sarah and things didn’t work out. But the fortress is strong now. The sort of platonic friendship she wanted ten years ago—I can do that now in ways my younger self couldn’t.
“Conjugality,” she suggests.
“What?”
“Conjugality,” she says. “It’s sort of like marriage, but not really.”
“Like conjugal visits in prison?”
“Sure,” she says. “I mean, we’re talking about sex without romance. Marriage without love.”
“I do love you.” The words leave my mouth before I’ve fully thought them through. “And I think you love me, too, right?”
Should I be offended by the alarm in her expression?
“Uh—”
“Not in a mushy way,” I hurry to explain. “In a friendly way. The way friends love each other or parents love their kids or—” I clear my throat. “The other kind of love—I’m not really capable of that.”
She’s back to looking at me like I’m spouting Yiddish, and she probably has a point. “All right,” she says. “How about smartnership? A cerebral partnership. A marriage of the minds.”
“Huh.” It’s not terrible. Should we be aiming higher than “not terrible,” or is that an okay place to land? “That does have a nice ring to it.”
Sarah nibbles her last carrot stick and glances toward the bar. “The line still hasn’t gone down.”
“Maybe I should.”
She turns her attention back to me. “Get in line for me?”
“No.” I hold her gaze as a jolt of lust shoots straight into my soap box. “Go down.”
“Wha—”
“On you.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks pinken just a little, but she doesn’t break eye contact.
I lean closer, wanting to be sure she understands. “I haven’t stopped thinking about tasting you,” I tell her. “Feeling you explode on my tongue.”
She gives a soft little whimper as the baby carrot drops from her fingers. I pick it up and set it on her empty plate, which I stack on top of mine and set on the bistro table beside us.
“I want to feel you clenching around my fingers again,” I whisper. “I want to bury my face between your legs and hear you screaming my name.”
There’s a flush creeping up from her chest to her throat, moving through her as my words penetrate. If I learned nothing else last night, it’s that Sarah still loves dirty talk. She told me in college, but I wasn’t sure that was still her thing.
I’m so glad it is. I may not be one for flowery prose and romantic declarations, but I can definitely deliver on that front.
The flush is creeping higher, and I can tell by the way she just licked her lips that she’s imagi
ning my tongue on her. That she’s remembering what it feels like to have me lick my way slowly along her seam.
“Now you’re really thinking about it.” I lean close, letting my lips brush her ear. “I’m dying to swirl my tongue around that sweet little clit until you go off like a firecracker.”
“Oh my God.” Her hand finds mine under the table, and she squeezes hard. I wonder if she knows she’s doing it. “Don’t stop.”
I’m not sure if she means the dirty talk or if she’s so caught up in what I’m describing that she’s playing along. “Did you like that last night when I used my fingers?” I ask. “Or do you want it softer, just the tongue?”
Her hair brushes my lips as she nods. “Fingers,” she says, practically a groan. “I loved what you were doing last night.”
“How many? One or two?”
“Two,” she whispers. “Two and your tongue.”
A couple brushes past us wearing matching devil costumes, and I’m thankful this ridiculous soap box is hiding the growing evidence of my arousal. I’m thankful the pulse of music around us is covering the dirty words we’re whispering to each other, but the flush on Sarah’s face leaves little doubt what’s running through her mind.
She wants me as much as I want her.
“Let’s go.” I lace my fingers through hers and start to pull her after me. Her expression is dazed and lustful, but she doesn’t hesitate to follow me.
“Wh—where?”
“Fifth floor,” I tell her. “There’s an empty conference room I spotted when I went to the men’s room.”
Sarah blinks. “Why did you go five flights up to find a men’s room?”
I don’t answer right away. I pull her out into the hall, then over to the elevators. The doors open right away and I pull her inside, grateful for the privacy when the doors swish shut behind us.
I turn to face her, pleased she hasn’t lost any of that lust-addled glow. My hard-on isn’t going away, either. I want her, she wants me, and this is exactly how it should be.
“I didn’t go to the fifth floor to find a men’s room,” I explain with the same matter-of-factness I’d use to describe my last meeting with the execs at Wyeth Airways. “I went to the men’s room to find a place to fuck you.”
